


Never Had a Chance

by babel



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babel/pseuds/babel





	Never Had a Chance

You know now that you never really had a chance.

You've known that for a while now, but sitting in a cell watching Avon sleep, that's when you really believe it. Even on that shuttle and afterward, you'd thought, "If only I'd done this or said that, it would've gone better."

Now, you know the truth that Avon was always trying to convince you of. The truth Avon had learned from Anna.

He stirs in his sleep, muttering something. He's more talkative in his sleep than he is when he's awake. You can't usually make it out in full, but you hear Anna often enough. Sometimes Blake or Cally. Never your name. It's never 'Vila' breathed through his lips. He lives with the dead now. You never had a chance.

They put the two of you on a crowded transport ship once you'd gotten out of the Federation infirmary as if you're common criminals again. Not revolutionaries now, oh no. Of course, maybe you and Avon never were. Maybe the revolution is dead now. In a pool of his own blood, dead.

You don't know what happened to the others. They're probably dead too. Better not to think about that too much. Better just to hover over Avon and make sure no one hurts him, because you damned well know Avon won't defend himself.

Besides which, if someone hurts him, it's going to be you. You're the one who has the most right. If you could only bring yourself to do it.

But when he's asleep, truly asleep not gritting his teeth against his nightmares, he looks like you remember him. Never was much of a sleeper, Avon, but after he'd spent a few hours in your room, you could eventually exhaust him enough that he had little choice but to sleep in your bed. You'd watch him, thinking he was rather beautiful when he wasn't glaring, when his hair was damp with sweat and hanging over his forehead. You can almost imagine that this Avon in this cell on this transport ship is still the Avon you used to know when he's asleep. You brush his hair off his forehead and try to remember what you liked about him. Maybe even what you loved about him.

When he's awake, he just stares at the wall. Sometimes there is a flicker of emotion, but not often. He doesn't even seem to care where he is or that he survived or that _you_ survived, and all you can do is hate him. An overwhelming hate like you haven't experienced in a long time.

When he's awake, you feel like you could strangle him if he'd just close his eyes. If he'd just not look at you like he's grateful.

He's awake now, staring at the wall. And you're next to him, staring at his profile. It's as if you're alone, the two of you. Everyone else stays as far away as possible, like they might contract the sickness in Avon's mind. Like he's a devil from one of the old, old stories. Like if he looked at them, he would steal their souls.

You smile bitterly to yourself, because maybe that's true.

The faceless guards bring in food, if the slop they bring could be called food, and everyone gulps it down but Avon. He doesn't look at the bowl next to him. He doesn't move to take it. He never eats anymore.

You figure if he starves to death, it won't break your heart. Maybe if he dies naturally, you'll get your soul back.

"Don't mind if I take this do you?" you ask. Avon doesn't even blink as you scoop up his bowl and begin eating. "Figure you could use a diet, eh? Probably for the best."

You don't feel a single twitch of guilt, joking at his suicidal starvation. It's a bit like a drug, guiltlessness. You could say whatever you wanted to him now, and you wouldn't care what it did to him. You could kick him on the filthy floor of the cell and you could laugh, and you wouldn't care.

"Vila."

His voice startles you out of your illusion of heartlessness. You blink up from his half-empty food bowl to find him staring at you instead of the wall. With that pained expression that stabs you straight through the chest no matter how much you hate him.

You still hate him, you tell yourself. You hate him.

"What do you want?" you spit out, sounding nearly as cold as you'd wanted to.

Avon clenches his jaw, hard like when he's dreaming, and his eyes turn to shadows under his brow. "Leave me."

"And just how do you suggest I--" you begin, but before you can finish, the ship shakes violently, nearly knocking you off the slab of a bed the two of you sit on. He doesn't move--he was bracing for it.

He must've felt something in the ship. Defense computers coming on? Another ship attaching itself to this one? Bastard always liked anticipating things other people couldn't.

"What's going on?" you say.

He doesn't answer. He just stares at you, and the ship shakes again.

You let his bowl drop to the floor and you grab his arm. "Tell me, what's going on!"

"They'll let you go," Avon mutters, as if to himself. "Not me. I am too useful."

"Good to know you're feeling well enough to insult me again."

He furrows his brow, impatient. He almost looks like Avon again, that way. "I killed Blake," he growls, and Avon is gone again. "They can use me, not you."

Your stomach clenches, and you know he is right. Whether he means the Federation or whatever may be left of Blake's people, Avon is a symbol now, because Blake was a symbol. If you leave him, he will be dead. Everyone wants him dead.

You remind yourself that you want him dead too.

The sound of gunfire nearby tears your gaze away from him. Suddenly, the cell doors which you never considered unlocking yourself (what was the point?) swing open, revealing your rescuers. Tarrant and a woman you don't recognize. Tarrant scans the cell until his eyes land on you, and he smiles before he comes toward you.

"Come on," he says, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet.

"But..."

"Stannis convinced us to come after you," Tarrant says, not even glancing toward Avon. "Glad Blake was lying about her being dead."

Your legs feel like lead as he drags you along with him. "Avon?" you choke out, almost against your will, as you near the door.

Now Tarrant isn't looking at you either. "You'll notice Soolin and... and Dayna aren't here. They died in that Federation infirmary before Stannis got to us. I should've kept my word and killed him when I got the chance."

You find strength from somewhere, despite the haunting sound of gunfire as Tarrant's friend shoots down Federation guards from the doorway, and you jerk away from Tarrant's grasp.

He gapes at you, but before he can open his mouth to shout at you, you cut him off. "So why don't you kill him now, then? Could you do it? Look him in the eye and shoot him? He wouldn't even mind."

"Vila, there isn't time for this. We've got to go before reinforcements get here."

"Go then," you spit as you turn back into the cell, back to the empty shell of Avon staring blankly at the wall. You don't care if Tarrant leaves you to die for this. You'd leave your soul with Avon if you left him now, and you're not sure you can live like that anyway.

You grab Avon, and you jerk him up. He stumbles forward weakly into your arms. For a moment, all you can do is hold him, remembering what it was like to hold Avon before he turned into whatever he is now. For a moment, you try to convince yourself the Avon you loved has been dead for a while, and leaving him wouldn't be half as bad as taking him with you.

Instead, you slip under his arm and help him toward the cell door where Tarrant waits. You glance at Avon, and find him staring at you again. He knows you never could have left him, that you never could have given up on him, that your fool's heart always wins out over your rational mind in the end. He knows from experience that no matter how much you hate him, he will always have a hold on you.

He knows, too, that you never really had a chance.


End file.
